


a boy of hans

by elixirsoflife



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Voldemort, Angst, But Pureblood Elitism Is A Thing, Community: HPFT, F/M, Hanahaki Disease, Head Boy Draco Malfoy, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining, Trope Subversion/Inversion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 23:07:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15873579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elixirsoflife/pseuds/elixirsoflife
Summary: The books would paint it as something gloriously tragic. They would say that Draco is a work of art: copper stains on his teeth, wrists thin and carnations knitting together his ribs. A boy hopelessly and deliriously in love.Perhaps that is true, but so is this - Draco Malfoy is dying and it's Hermione Granger who led him here.





	a boy of hans

**Author's Note:**

> alright my loves, strap yourself in for a wild ride. this is my first attempt at dramione + draco's pov so i feel some excitement and a fair bit of nerves sticking this up for everyone to see so like... please be gentle? i began this after seeing a few people on tumblr reblog fics related to hanahaki disease and the idea intrigued me enough to attempt so i played about with it and made it my own. even down to the writing style, it's an experimental piece of mine.
> 
> like the tags say, it's in non-chronological order but it should be easy enough to follow. see you on the other side ;)
> 
> written for: lady ausra's 'trope of aces' challenge on hpft

**a boy of hans**

_or_

**the broken petals of a heart**

 

 **hanahaki** [ha-nah-hack-key]

_noun_

  1. A deadly mythical disease in which the victim coughs up flower petals when suffering from unrequited love. Though it remains in popular culture, there has been no evidence of its existence in history.
  2. A colloquial term for a love-sick fool e.g. ‘ _He’s a boy of Hans._ ’



* * *

**i. diagnosis**

He’s brushing his teeth when it first happens.

One second, the brush is swiping across his molars, jerking back and forth in a furious tempo; the next, there’s a sudden flare of pain in his chest, and a sharp, instinctive inhale. He sucks in foam and his lungs seize up – and then he’s bent at the waist, toothbrush slipping from his fingers as he clings onto the marble, coughing and crying and _coughing_ until his mouth empties like a jet of water. Gasping, he slumps there for a moment before he wipes the moisture from his eyes.

When he glances down, his blood runs cold.

Resting delicately on a sea of frothy white are two crimson petals.

Which really _does not_ make sense because people don’t just _hack up_ flowers, even if they are wizards, and in any case, there’s only one thing that could remotely explain what this is and there’s just – there’s no way that this is that _,_ alright? Because _that_ doesn’t even exist.

Quicker than a flash, his hand shoots out and turns the taps on to full-blast. The toothpaste disperses almost instantly, tearing apart and then swirling down the gaping whirlpool in the centre. The petals make to follow suit, but don’t quite make it, twisting around the metal mouth of the drain instead. Desperate, he stabs at them with the end of his toothbrush.

When they finally fall away, he lets the brush drop again and pants.

He’s safe.

* * *

**ii. first contact**

The first time he sees Hermione Granger, he’s not particularly impressed. She’s small and loud and _annoyingly_ confident and even more annoyingly eager – he can practically smell the mud in her – and she appraises him, nose scrunched in distaste as if his immaculate appearance is underwhelming when she’s the one who hasn’t even _attempted_ to tame all that hair. And she has a ghastly overbite.

By the end of the year, his assessment hasn’t changed.

Much.

She’s still embarrassingly anxious to please the teachers, still unbearably sure of herself and her looks haven’t improved in the slightest. The overbite is still there, that’s for sure. But the nine-month-long march of first year has twisted his dismissal into outright contempt, making every little thing she does into nothing short of the most irritating offence against humanity. He spends half of class muttering snide comments for the amusement of his fellow Slytherins and the other half striving to topple her from her perch at the top.

He fails.

Every. Single. Time.

It’s probably this, more so than anything else, that stings the most. Because Gryffindors are nothing if not insufferable and though half of them can hardly stand Granger 60% of the time, they take every opportunity to gloat of her victory against Draco. _Stupid_ , oafish Gryffindors. Merlin knows how they were even allowed to enter the school. Half of them probably hold their wands backwards.

“Excellent again, Miss Granger!” squeaks Professor Flitwick, a beam wider than a mile as he hands back her exam. “A hundred and ten percent!”

Beside her, Weasley turns to Potter in exasperation. “What – how is that even _possible?_ You can’t get higher than the maximum – that’s why it’s the maximum!”

“While that is usually true, Mr Weasley,” says Flitwick, “Miss Granger actually added one of her own questions at the end of the paper to explain the base origins of the Floating Charm, something usually taught in fourth year. You understand why I just _couldn’t_ let that go unnoticed.”

Weasley rolls his eyes as if unsurprised.

Granger, on the other hand, turns pink. “It was really no problem, Professor,” she simpers. “The subject was so fascinating, I just _had_ to research it myself and I thought it’d be an awful shame if I didn’t put the knowledge to some use. Really, it was all for a bit of fun.”

“Only you would find something like that fun,” he says in distaste.

Flitwick chuckles. “Nonsense, nonsense. When I was your age, I already had a healthy interest in the logic behind charms. Keep up the good work.” He totters off with the rest of the papers, still smiling to himself.

Watching him go, Potter says dubiously, “Did you _really_ write and answer your own question?”

As she turns an interesting shade of salmon, Draco can’t help but lean across the aisle. “Of course, she did,” he sneers. “Little Miss Bookworm can’t handle it if people don’t know exactly _how much_ she knows about magic.”

The trio instantly turns defensive.

“Shove off, Malfoy,” Weasley mutters darkly. “You’re just upset that Hermione’s beat you. Again.”

He lifts his shoulders in an artfully careless shrug. “I achieved a hundred percent. Which is ninety-nine more than you so I count that as a win.”

“Still haven’t beaten our Hermione though, have you?” Potter chimes in. The edges of his mouth curl with the suggestion of a smirk. “It must hurt, Malfoy. To try so hard and just fail. Every – single – time.”

There’s a heartbeat in which the two boys stare each other down, young and cocky and _vibrating_ with an energy that begs to be let loose as a quick hex or two, and the tips of Granger’s ears take the opportunity to fade back to their usual mahogany, and –

“Not really, no,” Draco finally says. Grey eyes slash across her dismissively. “You see, unlike Granger, I actually have some self-respect and don’t need a teacher’s recognition to sleep at night.”

“Oh, just be _quiet_ ,” she snaps, and he jeers, latching onto her irritation like a vulture with scraps.

“Well, would you look at that. She can speak for herself! Tell me, Granger, how long have you had a crush on Flitwick?” He puts on a high, breathless voice. “Oh, professor, don’t be so silly. An hour’s worth of extra reading is _nothing_ compared to the ones I’ve wasted daydreaming about you.”

“Real mature, Malfoy,” she says coldly, but it’s no use. The Slytherins have already burst into laughter, Pansy loudest and shrillest of them all, and even some of the Gryffindors are hiding grins behind their hands.

Draco smirks, satisfied.

Later, he writes home to his mother to complain.

* * *

**iii. caution: do not proceed**

Summer passes by in a blur of memories.

He visits his grandparents in France for a month, pale skin blistering to raw pink under the harsh glare of the southern sun, toes skittering across scorching sand and dipping into cool sea. He laps up sickly chocolate ice cream under umbrellas at Allée Labat with his grandmother, happily chattering about school, telling her stories she’s heard once, twice or thrice beforehand. He takes to the sky with his mother, a glint of gold keeping them up in the air for hours, laughter stretching their mouths. Sometimes, he even sits in Abraxas’ office, trying to pay attention as the older man goes about his business with various clients.

“Are you aware that you talk about this Granger girl a lot?” his grandmother interrupts one afternoon over tea.

Draco pauses in the middle of his millionth complaint of Flitwick’s favouritism. “No, I don’t.” At the quirk of her eyebrow, he hurriedly tacks on, “Grandmother.”

She hums, displeased. “Yes, you do. I’ve heard more about her than any of your friends. You’re acquainted with Crabbe’s grandson, aren’t you?”

“Well, yes,” he says, making a face. “But Crabbe and Goyle don’t really _do_ anything. Except eat. There’s nothing else to really say.”

“What about Valentina’s boy?”

“You mean Blaise?”

“That’s the one.”

Draco frowns. “He’s… nice. I suppose. We don’t really talk. He prefers to be alone. I don’t – I mean no offence by this, Grandmother, but I… don’t see what this has to do with the teachers treating Granger better than the rest of us.”

“It doesn’t,” she says. “Not really. But it stands to fact that you’ve mentioned, say, three sentences about Zabini and probably a hundred times that of this… Mudblood. Granger.”

A Galleon has been tossed in the air. It spins, round and round, glittering against the white walls of the dining room, not yet falling back down.

Eyebrows knitted together, Draco speaks with slow confusion. “I don’t… I’m not friends with Granger if that’s what you think. She’s – well, she’s awful. I couldn’t handle an hour with her around.”

His grandmother lifts a delicate china cup to her pursed lips with another hum. Her eyes, round and silver, never leave his, carving into him with a sharp, deadly focus. He has never seen someone look so elegant and formidable and _terrifying_ whilst sipping tea.

“Make sure it stays that way,” she commands.

* * *

**iv. stage one**

Two days pass before he feels it again.

He’s just entered his dormitory, dumping his bag on the floor in the manner of someone who has had a long as hell day and could not give a damn about being tidy at this point of exhaustion, when there’s a sharp stab of pain deep in his chest. He starts, instinctively slamming a hand against it – and then he can feel it again.

It’s rough and jagged and scrapes against his oesophagus on its way up like shards of glass. The world swims as he gasps for air, _chokes_ for it because Merlin, he can’t _breathe_ , he can’t think, he can’t – he can’t –

Sobbing, he collapses to the ground and spits out a mouthful of blood-stained petals.

“This isn’t happening,” he gasps, pressing his forehead against the carpet. Black spots dance across his vision. “This isn’t – no, this isn’t happening. Fuck. _Fuck._ This isn’t – this can’t – “

Copper floods his mouth; he spits.

“Fuck,” he repeats. “Fuck. This can’t be…”

Retching, he pushes himself up with weak arms and fumbles for his wand. He feels so _weak._ He feels so raw. Thoughts travelling at a hundred miles an hour, he swipes the hawthorn through the air and watches the evidence disappear.

Then, the black takes over.

* * *

 

**v. romance is dead**

“It’s so tragic, don’t you think?” sighs Lavender Brown.

One of the Patil twins – he’s positive her name is Parvin or something along those lines – nods in agreement. “It really is. Honestly, whenever I read a book about it, it just breaks my heart.”

“What does?”

They’re all on the grass outside Greenhouse Three, bundled up in fur-lined cloaks and scarves now that winter is fast approaching, shivering in the bitter breeze. Slytherins to one side, Gryffindors to the other, though the divide is not quite as great today in the silently acknowledged need for body heat.

Draco stands with Crabbe and Goyle, not even pretending to fake an interest in their dull discussion about whether treacle tart or banoffee pies are better to eat in winter. He keeps his thoughts on going to bed after this hour or maybe ordering one of the house elves to bring him some hot chocolate. But then Weasley, loud as a damn mammoth as always, booms that question and for some reason, Draco tunes into the conversation he’s in.

Probably because he’s even more pissed off with the Gryffindor trio than usual.

Not only did Granger beat him in Potions today (Potions! His favourite subject!) but he heard that Saint Potter, son of the infamous Falcon Captain James Potter, landed a spot on the team as Gryffindor’s seeker, pitting him directly against Draco in the matches. As for Weasley… well, he’s always bloody well annoying.

“Oh, we were just talking about this book called _The Roots of My Love_ ,” Lavender begins.

Weasley makes a face. “Never mind.”

“Don’t be like that! It’s actually really interesting. It’s about a girl with Hanahaki Disease.”

 _That_ gets his attention. In fact, it gets all of theirs including Granger’s.

“You mean, the mythical disease where someone coughs up flowers if someone doesn’t love them back?” she says, unimpressed. “Why would you be interested in that?”

“Because! Don’t you think it’s romantic?”

“No.”

“It is _so_ romantic,” Lavender insists. “Imagine loving someone so deeply even though they don’t feel the same, so much so that you’re willing to _die_ for your feelings. That sort of dedication is – “

“Ridiculous,” Draco and Granger say at the same time.

There’s a startled silence as the students awake enough to pay attention realise that he’s chimed in. Granger throws him a searching look – long and surprised, coloured with her usual distrust – before she shifts, turns her back on him, and continues with the tone of someone who refuses to be swayed. Which is to say her usual manner of speaking since Hermione Granger is as stubborn as a mule and ten times as smart.

“It’s completely barbaric,” she argues. “These authors are romanticising a slow suicide for a love that won’t be returned. I mean, do you not see how _wrong_ that is? There’s so much more to life than – than not getting fancied back by someone you’ve fallen in love with. Yes, it’s sad, but these stories paint it as something beautiful when it’s not, it’s just plain awful!”

When she sucks in a breath between sentences, Lavender quickly interjects, “Merlin, Hermione, you really know how to drain the fun out of things. It’s not awful, it’s – it’s – how can you not realise how beautiful it is to love someone that deeply? That you would do anything for them?”

Her passionate speech about the appeal of such tales draws in ears from the rest of the class. Draco scans the other students dispassionately, noting the slashed lines of his fellow Slytherins’ mouths, the awkward fidgeting from some of the Gryffindors, and the steam that pours from Granger’s ears in earnest as she listens with mounting disbelief.

Hanahaki Disease often calls for such reactions; it hovers on the edge between myth and history just enough to disturb the entire wizarding world, after all. A topic that’s best left avoided outside of teenage romance novels.

Tired of the nattering, Draco snaps, “Oh, get over yourself. It’s a stupid fantasy for brainless idiots to buy into and that’s all there is to it, really. Anyone who tries to convince themselves otherwise is pathetic.”

Another shocked silence.

And then the Gryffindors snap into action, rally together to unite against him – spiteful little Draco Malfoy, who hurt one of their poor feelings by stating the truth they all know – and Granger directs her scowl in his direction, as fierce as a lioness. But Draco just smirks, one edge curled higher than the other in the way that irritates her best, because he knows she agrees with every single word he’s stated. And as they all shuffle into Greenhouse Three, green elbows catching in red sides, he draws her attention and wordlessly tells her that. That on this matter, they are one and the same, and doesn’t that just set her on edge?

Several minutes later, his hands reluctantly patting down dirt over a mandrake’s rough head, he realises that the notion goes two ways.

* * *

**vi. a biography**

When it comes down to it, we are all a collection of facts. Sometimes, history will choose to remember those facts, will ink it down in pages that will eventually blur and then fade away. More often than not, they disappear within a couple of generations, the earth we once walked upon no longer remembering the feel of our feet on the ground nor the taste of our names.

Here are the facts of Draco’s life:

  1. He is Draco Abraxas Malfoy, son of Narcissa Black and Lucius Malfoy, grandson of Lycoris Selwyn and Abraxas Malfoy.
  2. He is a pureblood.
  3. He is in his seventh year and is Head Boy.
  4. He is in love with Hermione Granger.



* * *

**vii. danse macabre**

In their fourth year, the Triwizard Tournament returns with much fanfare. Beauxbatons and Durmstrang send along a careful selection of students, the bravest and fiercest cherry-picked from their respective institutes to collect all the glory, and the castle transforms into a site of danger and excitement. There are torrid affairs with the foreign students and school rivalries that culminate in a duel or two. There are dragons and champions and bets and badges and banners that scream their support –

And there is a ball at Yuletide.

Draco arrives with Pansy on his arm, him dressed in sleek black while she shines in pink, and it’s relatively fun considering the entire event is chaperoned by the staff. The Slytherins get a good laugh out of tripping people up on the ballroom floor with a sly spell or two and Pansy smiles at him, bright and wide and completely infatuated. They even share a kiss or two over steak and Butterbeer, hands interlocked. He’s not in love with her, no, but there’s something that flutters in his heart nonetheless, so they take to the dancefloor too.

As a Malfoy, Draco is no stranger to ballroom dancing. He grew up at functions where adults simper over wine and say many things without saying anything at all. He learnt where to position his feet and how to treat his partner and how to hold his head high because he’s a Malfoy and these events were made for him. But he was never taught what to do when one switches partners and is confronted with a Mudblood.

Hermione Granger stands opposite him, her easy smile quickly fading as she realises just who he is. The castle spins around them, robes fanning out, violins crooning in their ears. Yet they remain still, two pillars of stone in the centre of the Great Hall.

At long last, she raises an eyebrow. “Scared you can’t keep up, Malfoy?” she challenges, tossing back unusually sleek hair.

Common sense tells him to spit at her feet and stalk away – after all, she is beneath him and he would do well not to dirty his hands by holding her. But there’s an infuriating gleam in the brown of her eyes and a tilt to her chin that rubs at him the wrong way, and he’s spent nearly three years goaded on by the way Granger believes she’s better than him, that she has him all figured out and has dismissed her conclusions.

“Just deciding whether you’re clean enough to touch,” he replies and then steps forward to hold her.

The proximity is rather disgusting. He’s never been so quite so close to her, never been able to see the mole that clings to her lash-line or the hidden bumps of stress spots at the top of her forehead, never been close enough to have her breath hit his throat or feel her body flex under the heat of his palm. His grandmother’s voice commands him to turn away; his own stubbornness has him grip her firmer.

“You’re a pig,” she hisses and deliberately steps on his toes with the heel of her shoes.

He doesn’t give her the satisfaction of wincing. Merely spins her with a cold smile. “I only call it how I see it. Don’t take it to heart.”

When she returns, it’s with clumsy legs. Steadying herself with a scowl, she retorts, “Well, I suppose you’re turning over a new leaf then, dancing with a _Mudblood_ like myself. How revolutionary of you.”

He should let go and leave.

He doesn’t.

“Etiquette, Granger,” he murmurs instead, leading her into the next step. He looks over her shoulder at the rest of the floor, determining just who can see him when he’s in the thick of the crowd. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

She scoffs. “Do you hear yourself speak half the time? I don’t understand how you buy into the pureblood rhetoric, it’s complete _nonsense._ I’m not lesser than you or any other witch or wizard here; I deserve my place just as much as the next person.” He humours her speech with a hum. “You buy into this propaganda like – like – it’s like you don’t even use your _brain_ and see things logically. You just spout this toxic, vile rubbish and feel no guilt for it. Don’t you understand how _wrong_ that is?”

Her heels dig into the smooth tiling to jerk them to a stop. At the interruption, Draco darts his eyes back to her, disconcerted to find her so close. The top of her head nearly brushes the underside of his chin, bouncy curls miraculously tamed back, and two brown eyes stare up at him earnestly. The intensity of her stare is almost too much to bear.

Something deep down inside his stomach flips.

“Don’t you ever feel bad?” she asks him.

An uncomfortable sensation trickles up his spine. Hands still loose on her frame, he admits, “No, not particularly,” because the rhetoric she so easily labels as toxic and vile is all he’s ever known and someone like Granger isn’t likely to change that.

She snatches her body away with a ferocity that belies the setting. “You’re despicable,” she spits and storms away.

* * *

**viii. stage two**

The books paint it as something gloriously tragic.

Unrequited love turned into something tangible. A root that takes hold in the recesses of the lungs, blooming under time’s tender touch and the constant water of rejection to breathe life into existence. Flowers that preen and creep along the winding paths of the victim’s bronchioles until petals expel into the hollow of their chest and then escape into the real world where their love lies. The novels will have you believe it’s something hauntingly beautiful.

The reality is this –

Draco wakes up in the early hours of the morning, his chest crying out in pain. He feels the rough ridges of petals twist around the cavity there as he protests with a series of rattling coughs, struggling to suck in air to breathe. The pain travels upwards alongside the petals until he’s bent over in bed, eyes streaming and copper in his mouth, retching into his lap. He feels the weight of them through the covers, heavy and inescapable.

When he shakily lights the tip of his wand, he nearly blacks out again. Resting in the cradle of his legs are not a handful of petals but three full red carnations that glisten with blood.

The disease has grown.

A series of knocks sound on the other side of the door. “Malfoy?” comes the tentative voice of Granger. The very name sends another spasm of pain from his lungs. “Are you okay?”

No. No, he isn’t. There are petals in his lungs and blood in his mouth and his body won’t stop shaking uncontrollably. When he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror at the end of the room, he looks so thin and frail in his pyjamas, a mere shadow of himself. His eyes widen in fright –  is it possible to change this much in a matter of months?

“Malfoy?” Granger repeats. And then, softer: “Draco?”

He closes his eyes at that, wistfulness playing with the edges of his mouth. These are the moments that the disease feeds off, the ones he replays in his mind like an addict who savours every last drop of their fix. When Granger is all soft and kind, and he is not the enemy but someone to care for. When he is not a pureblood but just _Draco_.

“Yeah,” he calls out, voice cracking. He clears his torn-up throat. “I’m okay. Just – just got a bit of a cold.”

“Oh okay,” she says, still on the other side of the door. Ever since they’ve moved into their new quarters, they’ve made a point of respecting each other’s privacy. “Want me to get some Pepper-Up Potion?”

“No, no, it’s okay.” He shoots a panicked glance at the three incriminating flowers on his lap. There’s no way he can let anyone see them or figure out what they mean. “I’ll just go to the infirmary in the morning.”

Even through two inches of wood, he can sense her hesitance. The floorboards creak as Granger shifts uncertainly, torn between pushing her concern and leaving him be; his heart takes note of this with traitorous hope. She cares, it whispers. _She cares_. He grips the carnations tightly as he waits for her to make her move, ready to shove them under his pillow at the first turn of his doorknob.

In the end, she sighs and walks away.

Minutes after her footsteps have receded into the night, he sinks against his pillows and closes his eyes in exhaustion. The blood in his mouth tastes a lot like disappointment now.

* * *

**ix. as quickly as falling asleep?**

For Draco, falling in love is a reluctant affair.

It happens over textbooks in the common room, his quill condensing mind-numbing chapters of information into neat, colour-coded notes because he’ll be damned if Granger beats him to the top of the year again. It hides in the gloating smirks they throw each other in class, brimming with unspoken challenges to beat the other. It colours the insults he crafts especially for her, the way his eyes seek out a mane of hair on the other side of the Great Hall, and it shadows his footsteps when he swaggers over to ruin her mood.

He is a little boy who’s never grown out of the phase of pulling on his crush’s ponytails, feelings turned to frustration, appreciation manipulated into flat-out anger. The tell-tale flutter of butterflies in his stomach is nausea, the fixation with her performance not admiration but disbelief at how someone of _her_ standing could be so talented.

He does not notice the smooth mahogany of her skin nor the curve of her hips. He thinks nothing of the smallness of her hands as she cradles her precious books to her chest, does not care for round hazelnut eyes, or the way a few errant strands of her hair refuse to be pulled away from the nape of her neck. That sort of behaviour is for the likes of blood traitors like Weasley – stupid, _fucking_ Ronald Weasley, who falls over himself to drown her in worthless compliments, who follows her like an obedient little dog, desperate for attention.

(Attention she gives him, cheeks pink and smile wide, lips pulled back to reveal slightly large front teeth. Another imperfection.)

Falling in love comes slowly to him because Granger stands for everything he should stay away from. Many summers ago, his grandmother even commanded him to do so, thin lips pursed in warning. Because girls like Hermione Granger are obnoxious and combative, forces of nature that blindly blunder around and demand respect, respect they do not need –

But then again, she’s earned it, hasn’t she?

After all, Draco’s never met someone quite as formidable as her. Someone who stands for her beliefs so unapologetically, nails dug in deep and teeth bared. Who breathes magic like it’s made for her and uses it so beautifully he can hardly muster up the disgust expected of him. She is the embodiment of everything a Malfoy looks down upon and he admires her all the more for it.

Falling in love is easy when he thinks of it that way.

* * *

**x. the ten things i love about you**

Here are some of the reasons Draco loves Hermione Granger:

  1. She is more powerful than any pureblood their age including him.
  2. Her hunger for knowledge on the wizarding world is only surpassed by her desire to change it.
  3. On Sunday mornings, she can be found curled up by the fire in their common room in fluffy pyjamas and slippers shaped like bears as she reads romance novels.
  4. When she has coffee, she must add at least three spoons of sugar before she deems it acceptable to drink.
  5. When they were twelve years old, she answered her own extra question to their exam because she wanted to show off how much she knew about the Floating Charm.
  6. Sometimes, they sit in the common room and do their homework together.
  7. Her hair is so knotted that a comb was once stuck in it.
  8. When they entered seventh year, she convinced him to call a ceasefire on their little rivalry and he couldn’t help but admire the way she tried to talk circles around him.
  9. If she’s particularly happy about something, her eyes crinkle up and she smiles so wide, hands forgetting to hide her front teeth.
  10. She calls him Draco now.



* * *

 

**xi. stage three**

Carnations litter the tiles.

He didn’t realise his body could hold that many of them inside. They escape more often nowadays, falling from his tongue as readily as breathing – he’s taken to carrying a permanent handkerchief to hide them with each cough because of it – but are rarely as painless. The stems shred his throat on their way up, turning his voice rough and hoarse, and the petals are coated with splatters of blood. And when he breathes, the pain of their roots seizes his entire chest.

He hates them.

He hates them _so much_. Outside, spring beckons more flowers into existence and the sight makes him want to burn the world.  Each petal he sees begs him to scream or to curl up in a ball and cry – but then Granger nods at him as they pass in the corridors or leaves out a cup of lemon tea with honey, charmed to stay piping hot, and he spirals deeper to his death.

Because that’s what it comes down to, isn’t it?

In the end, his lungs will choke on these flowers he despises so much. Draco Malfoy will fade into obscurity, a boy felled by a disease that doesn’t even exist. Because he’s in love with the way Hermione Granger saunters through the castle and keeps her Head Girl badge nice and shiny, but she doesn’t feel the same. To her, he is nothing but a peer, even though she’s all he thinks about nowadays.

She cares about him, yes. But in the way a role model cares for those under her guidance – because it’s her _responsibility_ to make sure he’s in good shape. It doesn’t matter if she knocks on his door at four in the morning when he’s had a particularly rough night or if she brews tea with drops of Pepper-Up Potion added in for good measure. It doesn’t matter if she furrows her brows at him in concern at the way he appears to be eaten whole by his robes and silently shoulders some of his duties.

Because her fingers are intertwined with Weasley’s as she does so.

Because _he’s_ the one who scribbles her cheesy notes in lesson and brings her breakfast when she forgets to eat and carries her heavy bag between classes despite how much she likes to protest about being able to do it herself, spluttering unconvincingly just for the show. Because she presses delicate kisses to his freckles and listens to his insecurities and shares some of her own; because they’re cosied up on the sofa in the common room while Draco is staring at a floor full of sad carnations, all alone.

Even through the bathroom door, he can hear Granger snort and exclaim, “ _Ronald!”_ in a manner that suggests she’s trying extremely hard to sound reprimanding. “Don’t be so ridiculous, you know that’s not the answer!”

Weasley mumbles something unintelligible and likely unintelligent, but it seems she doesn’t care because moments later, the soft smack of two lips sounds in the air and something in Draco’s stomach lurches. For a moment, he thinks he’s genuinely going to throw up – and then comes the all too familiar spasm of pain under his ribs and the flowers start clawing their way out again.

_Fuck._

Desperate, he tries to hold them at bay, hands frantically pressed against his mouth. But there’s velvet on his tongue and tears on his cheeks and then they’re both spilling past his fingers. He releases them with a long string of painful coughs. Gasping, he keels over until his forehead presses against the tiling, retching on the taste of his own blood.

“Draco?” a worried voice says from the other side of the door. Granger raps against the wood. “Draco are you okay?”

He struggles to catch his breath. “Yes, I’m – “ Panting, he tries to push himself onto his knees. Black spots dominate his vision, sending him reeling. “I’m fine, I – just a bit. Under the weather. Nothing to worry about.”

“Are you sure? That sounded really bad.”

She cares. _She cares._

“Yes, I’m sure – “

A fresh wave of flowers cuts him off. They cascade from him like a waterfall, chased out by a river of blood. Draco chokes, erratically swiping his arms through the air in a wild attempt to get it to stop; the movement sets him off-balance just enough for the black spots to take the reins. He collapses to the bathroom floor with a loud clatter.

“ _Draco?_ ” Granger cries in alarm. “What was that? Are you okay? _Draco?_ ”

It’s as if her voice is a thousand miles away, transmitted over the distance through an old radio. He registers her call his name several times and the way the door frantically bucks against the lock. In his delirium, he can’t even bring himself to answer back.

“The door’s locked!” she says desperately to someone on the other end. Who’s with her again? Oh, right, Weasley. It’s always been Weasley, hasn’t it? “I don’t know what to do, I think he’s fainted!”

“You don’t know what to – Hermione, _calm down,_ we have wands for a reason. Look, it’s okay, mine’s right here. Don’t freak out, I’ve got it sorted. _Alohomara!_ ”

The spell pierces through the fog that clouds his mind. On the edge of hysterics, Draco pulls his body up, grabbing as many fistfuls of flowers as he can and throwing them at the toilet. They can’t find out, _they can’t find out_ , he has to keep it a secret, no one can _know_ –

The door slams open.

“Draco are you – “ Granger cuts off and stares at the scene with wide eyes.

In the middle of the bathroom, Draco lies in a pool of carnations. Blood stains his chin and catches onto his robes. He meets her confused gaze and then sinks into a dead faint.

* * *

**xii. the fall of the mighty**

He wakes up in the Hospital Wing.

Here, white conquers everything. The absence of red – red petals, red robes – makes his head spin, almost as much as the sound of his father’s furious voice. It takes him several moments to place it, to realise that there are people arguing heatedly at the foot of his bed, and when he pushes himself up on weak arms, he sees his parents glaring down Granger and Weasley with Madame Pomfrey as the unwilling referee.

“This is an _infirmary_ ,” she hisses at the two parties.

His father bristles. “Well, I want them _out_ ,” he says, flaring his nose at the audacity of the two students. “This is a personal matter that does not concern the likes of – “

“The likes of what?” demands Weasley. “We were the ones who found him and Hermione’s the one who works with him, so we have every right to be here if we want – “

“You _have nothing_ ,” he snarls. “Impudent boy, this is a private – “

“Draco!” The sudden cry comes from Granger. At his name, all heads snap his way, varying mixtures of relieved and surprised. “You’re awake!”

All arguments peter out as five pairs of eyes stare at his trembling form, replaced with an uncomfortable silence that is weighed down by unspoken truths. Words aren’t needed to confirm what Draco suspects. The hesitance in their faces says it all: they know.

They know there are flowers growing in the gaps between his ribs, stems rooted in the walls of his alveoli and winding a path to his mouth. That his body is steadily shutting down on him as his lungs fail him while his heart continues to beat for someone who isn’t interested. And the shuttered eyes of his father entwine with the terror in his mother’s to inform him that they know just who has stolen his.

He swallows. “Yes,” he murmurs hoarsely. “I suppose I am.”

And despite the presence of his parents and the pool of carnations in his bathroom and the fact that his world is ending, he offers Granger a tremulous smile.

* * *

**xiii. once upon a time**

Would you like to hear a story?

It’s not a very happy one, I must confess.

It unfolds in a time where wizards and Muggles weren’t on the best of terms. The latter was increasingly wary of curses and bewitchments, terrified that the devil would lead them astray and steal their souls. The wizards were in turn persecuted for their abilities and thus banded together, cold and suspicious of anyone who threatened their safety.

And Muggleborns? Well, they did just that.

This was not always the case. Once, many years ago, non-magic folk and magical creatures coexisted in relative peace and Muggleborns were simply the start of something new and wonderful.

But fear can easily turn into hatred and hatred festers in the slots of our ribcage, a metronome aligned with the heart. It is very easy for some to despise an entire category of people, especially if they are considered incompetent and inferior. It was therefore very easy for Muggles to be reviled and their magical children to be outcast, too dangerous to be accepted by either world, and very easy for wizards to now boast of centuries of magical lineage.

There was once a wizard who was exceptionally proud of his.

His daughter was not.

History will tell you that she died of a tragic illness in her youth, perhaps in the Great Plague of London. Hushed whispers from certain Healers will suggest otherwise, will point to the pages of the past and mention a curious myth that has pervaded wizarding society to this day. If Hanahaki Disease ever existed, they say, it was because of this man.

The story goes a little like this:

One day, the man’s daughter fell in love with a farmer’s son. The boy had mud in his veins and magic in his hands and his eyes on a pretty Muggle neighbour of his, but the daughter was content to love him from afar nonetheless. Her father wasn’t as understanding. Malice dripped from his wand, a punishment presented in pretty petals – his daughter was to choke on them until her feelings were returned or faded away. Or she would die.

Did I mention this wasn’t a happy story?

Here is the truth about Hanahaki Disease, the one only some Healers know: it was made by a pureblood to punish other purebloods. It appears when they fall in love with a Muggleborn and leaves only when they are loved in return. It has been wiped from history to preserve the pureblood name.

And for that, Draco will die.

* * *

**xiv. treatment**

Hermione Granger is not in love with Draco Malfoy and she never will be.

So, he leaves.

Packs up his bags, agrees to arrange private sittings of his exams, and says goodbye to Hogwarts the very night he collapses. He does it without fanfare, without letting Crabbe and Goyle or any of the others know because his condition is a shameful secret to be kept and it’s better this way. If he leaves now, there’s a chance the distance will cut away his feelings for her at the root, that he will live.

Before he steps into the Floo, he pauses and drinks in the image of her one last time. A wistful smile curls his mouth. “Is there really no chance?” he can’t help but ask.

Granger looks at him, tears glistening in her eyes. When she blinks, they spill onto her cheeks. She studies him – the way his thin shoulders shiver under a cloak that is far too big for him now, the gaunt cut of his cheekbones, the hungry glint in the grey of his irises – and shakes her head. Trembling fingers press to her lips.

“I – I can’t,” she whispers. “It’s just – Ron, he – we.”

Draco breathes out a broken laugh. “I thought not. Goodbye, Hermione.”

Her eyes are so, so sad.

“Goodbye, Draco,” she says.

He leaves Hogwarts under the cover of night, a fugitive and a traitor. A few dizzying spins through the Floo later, he stumbles onto French soil. The empty expanse of his grandparents’ home greets him, cold and unforgiving, a silent condemner of his actions and many mistakes. The Malfoy crest etched onto the floor sneers up at him dismissively. His weak knees give way and hit it with a painful thud. Yet as his mother rushes to pick him up, he throws out a short cackle of madness.

“Draco, darling,” Narcissa says worriedly. “Are you alright?”

He laughs again, gaze sweeping across his new prison with blurred vision. It snags on the enormous windows at the far end that gape out at the neat garden outside and the stars above. The stars _._ At least that’s one thing they still share. This way, he can look up at the constellations and feel slightly less alone.

His body burns with pain.

A cough rattles his chest –

* * *

**xv. a sad truth**

(The next morning, his grandmother enters his bedroom with cold eyes. A flick of her wand throws open the curtains and the sunshine rushes in to blind him.

“I thought I told you to stay away from her,” she muses softly.

“You did.”

All is quiet.

“If you die for this girl,” Lycoris Malfoy finally says, “I refuse to mourn you.”)

* * *

**xvi. prognosis**

He throws up the broken pieces of his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> notes;  
> 1\. Allée Labat = Labat Alley = is a pun based on “aller là-bas” which means to go over there. This lovely name for the French equivalent to Diagon Alley was made by the lovely Val and her sister <3  
> 2\. Danse macabre is an artistic genre of allegory where the dance macabre is a medieval representation of the all-conquering power and inevitability of death.  
> 3\. "Quicker than falling asleep?" is a play on words of a popular quote from The Fault in our Stars by John Green where the quote is: “As he read, I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once.”  
> 4\. "Ten things I love about you" is based off the movie The Ten Things I Hate About You  
> 5\. "The fall of the mighty" is a play on the wording of the biblical quote "How the mighty have fallen".  
> 6\. Also special thanks to M.C.Crocker for helping me out with the wording in a couple of sections <3  
> 7\. Red carnations symbolise deep love and affection.
> 
> anyways: any thoughts? hate me, love me, hate ~it?


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